Words Unspoken (10 page)

Ev tried to imagine what she saw. He’d found the article of the wreck on microfiche at the local library. A terrible tragedy. What did Lissa see now?

He spoke softly, still turned toward her. “There is a delicate balance that eventually becomes innate when driving the car—the push of the foot on the gas pedal. The lifting. The slow release and the pressure on the brake. The light grasp of the steering wheel, the touch of the finger that flicks on the turn signal or the windshield wipers. During their first driving lesson, my students always wonder how in the world they will master so many details at once.”

She looked over at him. Her forehead was an accordion of wrinkles. Such a young face to be wrinkled! Her eyes were glassy brown. He thought she might cry.

But then Lissa took a long breath. The shoulders slumped a little; she released her grip on the steering wheel and folded her hands in her lap. “Okay, Mr. MacAllister. I’m ready. You tell me what to do.”

He relaxed too. “The first thing you do is you pay attention. That is the law of driving, Lissa. Paying attention.”

________

He knew. Mr. MacAllister knew why she was afraid. Somehow he had heard of the details of the wreck, of that Lissa was certain. And relieved, actually. She would not have to recount it in all its gory details. He knew, and what was much better, he understood. She wondered briefly if the man read minds. No one else could have told him what the voices screamed at her. Yet he had said it, plain, simply, with the kindness of his pale blue eyes seeping into hers.

She’s not a failure. She just doesn’t know.

Lissa picked a character immediately—the heroine of
Rebecca,
fragile, scared, inexperienced, naïve. But smart! “Have you ever read
Rebecca
?” she asked.

Mr. MacAllister smiled. “Loved that novel. So you’ve chosen Ms. Du Maurier’s unnamed heroine?”

“Yes.”

“ ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again.’ But don’t take the analogy too far, Lissa. You are going to learn without all the mystery and heartache! Agreed?”

She gave him a half grin. “Sure.”

“Today, all we’re going to do is practice getting in and out of Ole Bessie. In and out, in and out. You start in the passenger’s seat and you walk around the front of Ole Bessie and you get into the driver’s seat. You close the door. You lock it. You put on the seat belt. You start the engine. And then you turn it off. You repeat these things again and again and again, until it’s the most normal, natural reflex in the world. Can we do that?”

Lissa’s eyes filled with tears, but it didn’t matter. Mr. MacAllister understood. He read minds
and
he was a psychologist. Back to the scene of the crime. She would go back there and further back and even further back, until each time that she moved from the passenger’s seat to the driver’s seat she didn’t see an image of her dead mother, doing the very same thing.

________

Safe. Together. Peaceful. Janelle let the words soak into her spirit as her hands soaked into the warm suds of the sink. Dishes! Many, many dishes to wash. Some women complained about the daily chores of cooking, but she thanked God for the familiarity of mundane tasks. Cooking, eating with her family, and washing up afterward showed progress. She set out to do something, and she accomplished it. With a job where spiritual results were impossible to measure, at least she had housework.

She leaned against the counter, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and listened to the children conversing happily with Brian about their first weeks of school. Sandy squealed in mock protest as her father tickled her under the chin.

“So, my princess, you have already gotten one
Bien
and one
Très Bien
! We should celebrate that your ogre of a
maîtresse
is warming up to the princess.”

“Daddy. Some other kids got good grades too. And actually, she’s not as mean as everyone says. I think I might like her… .”

Let life stay simple for a little while, Lord. Let us be busy with book satchels and homework and teachers’ meetings and good meals around the table. Just for a little while, please.

An hour later Brian cuddled up beside her in bed, his long arms holding her around the waist. She shifted and turned to face him. His face was playful, like an eager little boy awaiting a gift. She pushed the hair out of his eyes and traced her finger along his lips.

“Hey, there,” he whispered, and kissed her neck softly. “Thank you for taking such good care of the kids, getting them organized. And for a delicious dinner. And for being here beside me tonight.” He gave her a little squeeze. “Two weeks is too long, isn’t it?”

“Too long,” she agreed.

Tomorrow they would talk of his trip. Tomorrow she would tell of the heaviness. He knew it, anyway, had heard it in her voice each time he called home, no matter how she tried to disguise it. But they had learned through years of traveling and separation how to deal with his “reentries”: no meetings the first night home, no deep discussions, just time as a family, a good meal, and, after the children were tucked into bed, a little celebration of their own, a mutual giving to each other, with joy. For the next hour she didn’t hear any voices except his saying, “I love you. I love you, Nelli.”

________

Annie found him sitting in the swing on the porch, lost in thought. He had not even bothered to go into the house to greet her when he returned from the last driving lesson. He needed to think. And pray.

“You’ve got that worried expression on your face, Ev. Same one every time you finish a lesson with that girl. What’s her name?”

“Lissa.”

“Yes. Lissa. What’s the matter?”

He nodded to his side, and Annie sat beside him.

“She can drive—she just can’t live. She’s stuck, and I don’t know how to help. So much potential. But maybe it’s not the right time.”

“She have another panic attack today?”

“No, not today. Today I earned my reputation as that old eccentric driving instructor who has such unorthodox ways of teaching.” He watched Annie’s face crinkle into a smile. “We concentrated on some very, very basic things—like walking around the car and getting into the driver’s seat. She’s not ready to go any further than that. She’s just so fragile.”

Annie stood and came behind him, arms encircling his shoulders, resting her chin on Ev’s head. “Why don’t you invite her to dinner? We’ve done that before. Remember Angela? And that poor boy Charley. You said his IQ was lower than the score he’d gotten on the driver’s test. But you saw potential.”

Ev sighed, took a long breath, reached up, and placed his hand over Annie’s, giving it a squeeze.

“Mr. MacAllister.” Her voice was reprimanding. “You are letting this girl get to you. She is not your burden. You’re too old to get all worked up over a student.”

“I thought you called me your young man.”

“Well, right now, I’m calling you old, and I’m telling you to let that girl be—or I’ll force you into retirement, you hear me?”

He chuckled. When Annie got desperate, she made threats. “You will? Because I want to help a scared teenager? I don’t believe you, Mrs. MacAllister. I don’t believe you for one second.”

“Humph! Then have it your way, but invite her over. Let me see what she’s made of—maybe that would help. It’s worked before.”

“Yes, it has.” Ev squeezed her hand again and watched as she went back inside. Annie, bless her soul, had her own unique, unorthodox way of helping others. Perhaps that was what Lissa needed.

He’d almost told her the problem. He’d almost pronounced that one word that would explain everything.

Tate.

________

Silvano settled himself in his favorite chair—the only one in the small den. Despite the shabby furnishings, his little apartment in Decatur felt like home. Framed prints of Canaletto’s and Guardi’s representations of St. Peter’s Square and the Coliseum hung on the wall. A framed black-andwhite photograph of his family—all of them together: Mamma, Silvano, Daniella, Sophia, Roberto—sat on a small table beside his chair.

He spread the photocopied sheets in front of him like puzzle pieces, got on his knees, and studied each one. The folder was thick with newspaper reviews and magazine ads for each novel, as well as Eddy’s scribbled notes and sales figures. But correspondence with Miss Green was slim. Search as he might, he found no street address or phone number on any of the royalty statements or bank deposit slips. Just a post office box: P.O. Box 6765, Chicago, IL 60607. He jotted it down. How did one go about locating a post office box?

A photocopied memo scribbled on Eddy’s personalized stationery named one other person.

Jerry,

  
Please deposit as per last statement.

Thanks,
Eddy

That memo was dated November 6, 1979.

And finally, Silvano found a short letter written on stationery with a header.

Jerry Steinman

Goldberg, Finch and Dodge

Life of Georgia Building

600 West Peachtree Street

Atlanta, GA 30308

Phone 404-237-9938

Eddy,

  
Miss Green’s portfolio is in fine shape, growing steadily. She will be pleased. Enclosed are all the reports for you to send to her. I have mailed the monthly statement to the post office box as we agreed.

Jerry

And a phone number! Silvano poured a glass of red wine and congratulated himself.

See Mamma, it isn’t as hard as we thought. This is my big chance!

Almost immediately, a line from Miss Green’s new manuscript floated through his mind, something about paths deviating and the protagonist’s need to make sure the road he was following ultimately led in the right direction. He frowned subconsciously, took another sip of wine, and brushed the thought away.

This is my chance. Buono.

CHAPTER SIX

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

“Thanks for stopping by, Jerry,” Ted said, standing briefly and reaching across his desk to shake the broker’s hand. “Have a seat.” When they’d both taken a chair, Ted continued. “Miss Green called me yesterday. I don’t think she likes me too much yet, but at least we’ve arranged a meeting in Chicago. Lunch. She told me not to be late.”

Jerry chuckled. “You’d best heed her advice. As I said, it’ll pay off. Be charming, but be cunning. Show her you understand the brokerage business and her personal account.”

For the next half hour, Jerry went over the foundation in minute detail, the stocks, the bonds, the mutual funds, the past trading history. “Just call it a briefing.” He winked at Ted, stood up, and shook hands again.

“Thanks, Jerry. For everything.”

Jerry leaned over the desk. “Rumor has it that you’re selling quite a few of these junk bonds to a couple of your high-risk clients.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve watched you come along, Ted. You’ve had some hard clients, and you’ve handled them well. You’re a good broker, but don’t let the money go to your head. Watch those junk bonds—I don’t think they’ll spell success in the long run. This bull market is about to turn bear, I’m afraid. It’s been strong for seven years. Can’t last forever. ”

“Is that why you’re getting out, Jerry?”

“I’m sixty-seven, and I’ve got a wife, three grown kids, and seven grandkids. They are why I’m getting out. I’ve been a broker for over forty years, and a bear market never scared me away before. I’m just giving you a little friendly advice. Be careful. Leveraged buyouts and all the junk bonds make me nervous. You’ve read about the illegal insider trading. Just keep your eyes open and your head clear. Right now may not be the time to take the big risks.”

Ted nodded enthusiastically, his mind on S. A. Green. “I hear you. Don’t worry, Jerry. Thanks for the advice.”

“And remember, I’ll still be around for a while—planning to come in on Wednesdays and Thursdays. And if you need anything when I’m not here, you can always call.”

“Thanks, Jerry. Thanks a lot. Have a great weekend.”

Ted reflected on Jerry’s words. The seasoned broker wasn’t the only cautious one. The continuing bull market had at first stumped the analysts and then made them wary. Ted fiddled with his pen, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. Junk bonds didn’t scare him at all. Plenty of Americans wanted to play high-risk games. If it wasn’t with junk bonds, it would be with something else.

The eighties were all about takeovers—dueling companies scrambling for money to buy each other out, creating junk bonds to sell to overzealous clients. The profit provided the capital needed to buy out the competitor. The Dow Jones was speaking the language of newly issued stocks—called IPOs—and the new age of computers. Incredible, how those stocks were soaring. The public was eager to buy into products that were going to change the fabric of American life, maybe even life on the whole planet. Sure, people tended to be a bit overly optimistic, even euphoric. He tried to be honest with his clients.

“Bull markets don’t last forever,” he’d remind them. But the truth was that he believed 1987 was going to be the best year yet, and junk bonds provided the perfect way to increase his income.